And now from the corners I hear you not being there.
And I listen,
I listen for hours to you not crossing the room,
the room that doesn’t understand
that it’s you who isn’t crossing it
and who I’m listening to –

 

PROLOGUE

In primeval times all the land was joined together to form one huge island surrounded by the ancient ocean of Panthalassa. The supercontinent of Pangea was shaped like a letter C, and if you look closely at a depiction of it, it will put you in mind of a baby curled up in the womb in a position of hope. Two hundred million years ago, Pangea split into two large parts, Laurasia in the north and Gondwana in the south. Then, one hundred and sixty million years ago, Africa broke off. However, Pangea wasn’t the first supercontinent – the formation and disintegration of new supercontinents occurs approximately every six hundred million years.

I find the notion of the earth splitting in half strangely comforting. The world being rearranged and then reborn in a new form has a therapeutic, almost hypnotic effect on me. It’s as if I can imperceptibly feel the movement of the tectonic plates. In the quiet of my flat, I have the impression that the whole room is gently rocking. I imagine herds of animals freely migrating from the south to the north pole, and my thoughts turn to a fantasy I used to harbour as a child.

Whenever I had a bath in our cold bathroom, my mother would put a heater beside the tub for me. Be very careful! You mustn’t get a single drop of water on it. Otherwise it’ll blow up. The danger, the possibility of an explosion and destruction upset me. At the same time, I was disturbed by the calmness with which my mum left me alone in the bathroom with this dangerous contraption. But my mother had never been one of those anxious types who were overly concerned about their child’s safety – she had enough worries of her own and had no energy left for us. Most of the time she left us to our own devices. She took the view that it was best not to meddle in the affairs of children.

I would sit in the water as it cooled down, being careful about every drop and thinking that if it were to blow up, the whole bathroom would break off and I would go flying through the air like Aladdin on a magic carpet with my microworld laid out upon it. I thought long and hard about how I would survive. What would I eat? There was soap, detergent, washing powder, my hands and feet, and also a sponge, my mother’s make-up and my father’s shaving foam. I reckoned it might be a good idea to stash some tinned food at the back of the cupboard – just in case.

I really liked that bathroom – in summer the sound of birdsong drifted in from the garden and the window was dappled in shade from the climbing roses, my mother’s pride and joy. I would lie in the tub with my head under the water and think about sailing through the air and observing the world dispassionately. I would vividly picture the ripped-up foundations of the small room my father had tacked on to the house, which had originally been built for the employees of the train station opposite. The bathroom door would open into an airless void; there would be thick clouds outside the window. I was almost tempted to tip a bucket of water over the heater just to try it out. Now that would be something! But I was never brave enough, so I just sat in the tepid water, checking to make sure a spider didn’t crawl out of the drain.

That old vision brings a smile to my lips and I involuntarily examine my fingers – they aren’t pruney. I step out onto the terrace; there’s loud music coming from one of the neighbouring flats, even though it’s getting on for midnight. I breathe in the close, heavy air. The flowers decorating the terrace gently quiver. I rub my weary face, then close the door behind me and drift into Tommy’s room. He’s sleeping in a blissful pose, his summer PJs with the anchors on them bunched up almost as far as his neck. Where did you come from? I think to myself as I do every time I see him sleeping. When he was born, his eyes held a reflection of the entire history of the world, including my own. So much so that I had to avert my gaze under the weight of something eternal in his eyes, in which the boundary between the iris and the lens was not yet clearly defined. For a time, we too were a continent; he was Pangea, surrounded by my ocean. I too was once an island, waiting contentedly for his time to come.

My thoughts are interrupted by the noise from the neighbours. The moans and gasps are getting louder; she’s shouting yes, yes, yes. That still won’t make you immortal, I think. But they want to cross that boundary, just like you, like me, like all of us. Their strenuous effort doesn’t let up – she’s diligently screaming, giving it all she’s got, but it’s taking him a hundred years. Do it to her already! Have I got to come up there and show you how? There’s no end to it and I want to get to bed. My husband’s asleep in the room next door. Soon it’ll be six years since we got married, eight years since I left you, three years since I left you for good.

An unknown number at one a.m. Who else could it be? You used to be fond of the wee small hours as well, a flowery email or innocent-looking question at five in the morning. You missed me, so you picked up the phone, simple as that. I was filled with joy and trepidation, but I didn’t call you back. In my mind I went over the reasons why I should, but there really aren’t any. And the ones that are left are covered by the statute of limitations. I was waiting to see what the denouement would be, looking out for the sequel. There always was one. In the end, after the sad events that overtook us, I made a decision. The misfortune that had struck us recently, hitting Peter hardest of all, was still very much a part of our lives and I knew I couldn’t afford to wait. I would do what I thought was necessary.

 

1.

I have a feeling it was November, a Friday evening. What other day could it have been – Fridays were ours. The city centre was deserted. The sky above it heavy, steely grey, the air acrid, burning in the throat. The authorities had issued a level-two smog warning and advised members of the public, especially children and elderly people, not to go out. I was sitting in a glass-fronted café, waiting for you to run some kind of errand. I was edgy and tense, trying to shake off the feeling that I shouldn’t be sitting here of all places. I eyed the waitress behind the bar. She was tapping away on her mobile with an indifferent expression.

For a while I watched the street. I had been here for two months and didn’t know the city or many people here. I went to the toilets to give myself the once-over. Everything was fine. I went back to my place and sat down like a schoolgirl, my hands trembling slightly, seized with anxiety. I glanced at my mobile. I still had time. I didn’t have to go through with this. Nobody was expecting me to. My heart was pounding, but at the same time, without wanting to sound pretentious, there was a kind of dark current flowing inside me – in short, I could scent blood, and I needed that. Back then I still thought your blood smelled sweet. We’d already sat together like this once before. After a lengthy email correspondence, you’d invited me for dinner, said you found me interesting. After dinner we went to some dive, a hangout for punks and people who hadn’t noticed that the eighties were long over.

“How old are you anyway?” I asked, and I didn’t like the answer I got. But out loud I just told you that age was overrated.

“And what is it you’re studying?”

“Nothing worth talking about.”

“So an arts student then?”

“A lifetime of signing on, part-time work and poverty awaits.” You laughed and I joined in.

“But I don’t give a shit.”

”You’re right. Screw it.”

“I studied as well,” you said. “German and English. I was thinking about a career in academia, but my girls got more pocket money than I did grant money, so I chucked it in. There were no openings at the faculty anyway.”

“Can you make a living by translating?”

“Yeah, and I work on other stuff as well. I’m doing all right,” you said, smiling at me encouragingly. As if it actually mattered.

You took a sip of your drink and then thought for a moment.

“I didn’t really belong there anyway.”

“Where?”

“At the university.”

“Why?”

“It stopped making sense to me, and I couldn’t exactly say that out loud,” you chuckled. “They were getting rid of talented people anyway. It’s not as cushy a job as it looks. I didn’t get evenings off. I felt as if the world was elsewhere.”

“What do you mean, elsewhere?”

“Would you like another one?” you asked, changing the subject.

“What about you?”

“Sure.”

All in all, it was quite a nice evening. For the first time in ages, I even forgot about David for a while, and I said to myself that you were everything David wasn’t: considerate, sympathetic, worldly wise. I shamelessly made it clear to you that we could go to your place. Not yet, you said. It would spoil things. It was all the same to me. Now or next time – did it matter? When I shut the door of my dorm room behind me a few hours later, I took a long shower: the smoke had seeped into my pores. Forty-two years old. If I decided to have kids, you’d be in your fifties. It’s a bit soon to be thinking about children, I told myself.

You asked me how I liked the city. I don’t. You wondered what I was doing here. Long story. Was I supposed to have been somewhere else? Did I have any female friends here? Yes. No. You gave me an understanding look. The only person I know is Vojta. He got kicked out of school, so he came here with me – he got into the art school. You smirked a little. I didn’t want to stay in Brno, cos of that guy, you know, like I was telling you – yeah, I know. I was silent, watching young people with flesh tunnels in their ears, wearing hoodies, playing table football, beers laid out on a small table next to them. What the hell are we doing here? Shouldn’t I be here with them instead?

I didn’t feel like telling you anything, didn’t want you to see that I was lonely. Even so, it didn’t escape you. You might already have been wondering if I was often at a loose end in the evening. I was. We had a lot to drink. You seemed like someone who would be able to appreciate my presence in their life. That night I dreamed about David, and the next day I was in a lousy mood. I shouldn’t start something with you on the rebound, I reflected during a lecture, but at the same time I was curious about what it’d be like with an older man. I was genuinely so curious that I wrote back to you in more than friendly terms. People on the street looked at me through the window from time to time, strangers in a strange city. I’d never had a problem meeting people, but now it was as if I’d been separated from myself and I felt as if nobody would understand my pain; in reality no-one even cared about it. I occasionally slept with Vojta, but it was pointless. We went clubbing together and sometimes it was a good laugh: Vojta brought along eccentric people from the art school and I listened to what projects they were working on. Occasionally someone would bring me a photo they’d taken, that was nice, but Vojta wasn’t David, who was finally living the life he’d wanted in Brno with the kind of girl he’d dreamed of. That girl would have it good with him; David would give her everything he hadn’t wanted to give me.

I almost burst out crying in that café that November day, but I spotted you in time. You looked a bit blurry through the window, but even so I could see the tension in your face, the unnecessarily long strides you were taking. You were obviously looking forward to this. I told myself that you were no fool and maybe you were playing me, but that it was worth giving it a shot. Let’s call you temptation. Let’s call you anything at all. Because later I found out that you could be anything at all. Seriously, anything at all that I set my mind on or you set your mind on.

You flung open the door and took a seat. Gave me a searching look. You ordered, drank in silence for a bit, and then began cautiously: “I saw you through the window. You looked… You know, if you want, you can still back out. I don’t want to force you into anything.” So I guess I didn’t come across as a woman of the world, I realized with disappointment. I was silent for a moment, considering his offer. The most sensible thing to do would be to up and leave. Because when I fully grasped what I was getting into and the fact that I was rushing into something that made no sense and that sitting in front of me was a human being – hear that, a human being – I felt ashamed and anxious. I was almost on the verge of tears. “It’s fine. Where shall we go?” I chirped. Relief spread across your face. “It’s a surprise,” you said with an eager smile as you pressed a gift into my hand. How sweet.

 

2.

In the light of the restaurant I noticed that your hair was thinning at the back. I was annoyed by the way people kept staring at us. Prejudice. I’d already drunk so much wine that I was starting to get crazy ideas about how maybe sitting here with you wasn’t such a waste of time. Maybe you felt the same way. Although it was doomed from the start, it was still worthwhile. I was holding forth about something; as usual, the alcohol had made me feel wise, somehow full of gravitas – in short, capable of solving all the world’s problems with scintillating intelligence. You reached for my hand and I drew back, but in the end I gave it to you. I had the feeling you expected it and I didn’t want to let you down. In your eyes I occasionally caught a glimpse of the boy you had once been. That put me in an awkward position. It was, shall we say, an unexpected complication. So I relented. I do that sometimes. Relent. I can understand what people need. A little tenderness. So why not give it to you? It doesn’t cost me anything. I like making people happy and fulfilling their expectations. I’m unbeatable at that. I sometimes imagine what I would appreciate at such and such a moment, and then I offer it up to the other person. Your hands are beautiful. I take hold of your slender fingers, one after the other. Gorgeous: long, oval nails, a pianist’s hands – I’m overcome with tenderness. I tell you you’ve got lovely hands and you tell me I’m lovely all over. You manage to spill the wine. Why are you so scared, I want to ask, but I pretend not to see, trying to ignore my guilty conscience.

We prattled on and you explained to me how this city doesn’t care about culture and that’s why it’s a good thing there are people like me here. I told a sort of story from my childhood about how I was in the local gallery with the school and there was a painting there, no doubt a worthless piece of kitsch, but at the time I was captivated by that scene – a lone Rococo chair by a stormy sea. Then in art class we were supposed to try and reproduce something we’d seen, and I painted that chair, while everyone else chose portraits or buildings or bowls of fruit. The teacher just said to me: “Nice, but couldn’t you have picked something more cheerful?” But I liked it, that painting really spoke to me, I kept coming back to it. That abandoned chair whispered something to me. I thought about how I could somehow get inside the painting and sit down on that chair and watch the darkening sea. It was the reason why I told my mum I’d like to try painting and she signed me up for art classes, but then I discovered I preferred reading about art. I’m no good at painting, I was better at swimming than painting. I smile slyly at you. I even won a few competitions.

“Do you like swimming pools? I love them.”

“I’ve never thought about it,” you reply.

“You know what I like most? When the swimming lanes are reflected on the surface. It makes me feel like I’m walking on water.”

You top up my glass, look at me admiringly and go back to your seat.

“Teachers think art is supposed to cheer you up. Their idea is that you’ll go to a gallery and be entertained as if you were watching a variety show. I’m sure you painted it beautifully,” you say, reaching for my hand. I’m a bit flustered. I don’t understand what you’re talking about and what I’m prattling on about: I gave up swimming because my father was no longer interested in my results, so there was no reason for me to carry on. Also, you suddenly seem a bit down – maybe we should lay off the booze. I ask you where you’d like to go if you could choose anywhere, because that’s the best I can come up with.

“I’ve never thought about it. I like the north. But it’s ages since I’ve been anywhere.”

There’s a chill wind blowing from your direction. It pierces my heart.

“I’d go to Antarctica. I’d like to see what the world looked like just after it was created.”

“That’s nice,” you say, fixing your intelligent eyes on me. Those glasses really suit you, you know that?

“The joke is that that probably isn’t what the world looked like,” I laugh.

“So what did it look like?”

“A hundred million years ago, there was a rainforest in Antarctica.” I’m slurring my words, my tongue thick. “There was a tropical climate here in the Czech Republic too – we even had a dinosaur of our own. Did you trace pictures of dinosaurs when you were a kid?”

“Of course. The ones by Burian. At home we had a book –”

I interrupt you.

“And four hundred million years ago the Earth turned faster, the days were shorter and the year was longer. The world’s constantly changing. Isn’t that fascinating?”

“It is,” you agree. “Are you interested in that kind of thing?”

“Yeah. I am.” I keep downing more of the wine. “These days people seem to think the world’s stopped evolving or something, that we’ve extracted all the best stuff from it and it’ll just look any way we want it to. That it’ll fall apart on demand.”

“You’re so right,” you nod. You’re holding my hand and I can see in your eyes that all you’re thinking about is sex. And I start to feel scared, but I can’t bring myself to walk away.

 

Translated by Graeme and Suzanne Dibble